


The Assumption

by WeeSweetieMice



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Christmas, First Kiss, First Time, Flash Forward, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:33:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2813783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeSweetieMice/pseuds/WeeSweetieMice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet with the woes of sin and strife<br/>The world has suffered long;<br/>Beneath the angel strain have rolled<br/>Two thousand years of wrong;<br/>And man, at war with man, hears not<br/>The love-song which they bring;<br/>O hush the noise, ye men of strife<br/>And hear the angels sing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Assumption

By candlelight the cream walls inside the chapel seemed to glow with warmth, a welcome contrast to the sharp air outside. Ivy hung from the pillars, tied in place with wide gold ribbon. Near the front the figures of the clergy busied themselves at the foot of the altar. Malcolm sighed - a little too loudly - and his mother nudged him and frowned. This was not his idea of an enjoyable Christmas. He had plans involving a pub, a club and a night spent wasted - not midnight mass with his ma. She had had other ideas though; the usual variation on "my house, my rules". He knew how much it meant to her. That was the reason he'd returned every Christmas since he'd left home six years ago.

The folk choir (he shuddered at this) struck up a tune - something festive but bland, some wee girl on the flute swaying as she played. The murmur of conversation in the congregation fell away and the tall shape of Father Kelly took up his place to begin mass.

Malcolm refused to go up for communion and thankfully his mother didn't insist. Probably knew better than to expect him to be in a state of grace. Instead he waited as those in his pew shuffled past him, watching as the line formed and they stepped forward towards the priest and- who the fuck was that? A young man, dark hair curling over the back of the collar of his cassock, leaned forward with the chalice; a young man who looked suspiciously like the one he'd hauled clear of a fight the night before, drunken and shouting and making the sorts of threats that (Lord, have mercy; Christ have mercy) should not be contemplated in the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church.

The young man looked up and saw Malcolm sitting alone in the fifth row. Preternaturally large blue eyes met narrowed seagreen eyes and the young man smirked in response to Malcolm's raised eyebrow. Not a case of mistaken identity then. Interesting.

Mass ended with a blessing and the din of two hundred exchanges of "Happy Christmas". Malcolm lingered behind as the last few parishioners left.

"You go on, ma. I'll walk back."

"Don't be getting wrecked, eh son? You need to be up in the morning for when the weans come over."

"Aye ma, okay."

 

 

He sat for half an hour in the cold shadows on the graveyard wall. Footsteps crunching on crisp gravel signalled an approach.

"Couldn't tell if it was smoke or your breath."

Malcolm turned to look at the speaker.

"M'names Jamie. You?"

"Malcolm."

"You did me a favour last night, pal. Thanks fer that."

"You're a fucking priest?"

"Seminarian." His tone was challenging. "Why?"

"I've never met a priest in a pub fight before."

"Ah'm not a priest yet. And I wisnae in that fight, by the way. You saw to that. Like I said, thanks."

There was a silence while Malcolm considered his reply. "Want a drink?”

"It's one in the morning on Christmas Day. Where the fuck do we get a bevvy at this time?”

Malcolm pulled the half bottle from his inside jacket pocket and held it out. The young man unscrewed the lid and swigged back several gulps of whisky before wiping the mouth of the bottle and handing it over. Malcolm swallowed a measure, feeling the back of his throat burning. 

"What else do you do?"

"Eh?"

"Drinking. Fighting. Pretty sure you were speeding off yer tits. Not very holy behaviour."

"Drinking's allowed." His tone was defensive again.

Malcolm laughed at him. "Sex, god and rock n' roll. I can see m'headlines now."

Jamie jumped like he'd been bitten. "You're a fucking journalist?"

"Yeah, but I've more on my mind than your wee nights out. Believe me, the Church'll do itself in eventually. I'm too busy trying to get the fuckers with the real power."

"Oh aye, is that right?" asked Jamie sceptically, clambering onto the wall beside him. "Tell us."

So Malcolm told him - told him what he was writing and why it mattered. He told him about workers’ control and minority rights; about privatisation and municipal reform. And when Jamie looked unperturbed he told him exactly why it mattered, right _here_ , where the people he grew up with struggled to keep their jobs and their dignity. He did it with such sheer bloody-minded conviction that, after half an hour of passionate rhetoric, an increasingly captivated Jamie could practically see a montage of trade union marches, bright new cities and proud, happy citizens waving placards, all to a majestic orchestral version of The Red Flag.

“So that’s what I’m doing, that’s what should be happening, and that’s what will happen when this lot are out and our lot are in. I’m going to make a difference.”

“You think I don’t want to make a difference? I can make a difference. I’m helping people too.”

“Oh aye, opium of the masses.”

Jamie shrugged. “It makes people happy.”

“People? Not you?”

“I’m people.”

Malcolm twisted his body around to look at him curiously. “Why do you want to be a priest?”

There was silence. Malcolm spoke again.

"You can get away with a lot in the church. Is that why it appeals?"

"Eh?"

“Very romantic place. Wine. Candlelight. Beads and frocks. All those men."

"The fuck are you sayin'?"

"Someone like you in a seminary? Can't knock the nights out on the head? And you've chosen celibacy while all your mates back home are shaggin’ whichever wee girl gives them the come-on. Seems strange to me, that's all. I mean, even if _I_ was one of ten kids and desperate to get out of home I'd be thinking bloody twice about a life wi'out sex. Unless there was good reason to devote myself to a life surrounded by men.”

"Six kids," said Jamie through clenched teeth. "And you haven't a fucking clue about me, you lanky cunt."

"That so?" smirked Malcolm. "Stop me, then." And he leaned over and kissed the young man gently on his lips. Jamie froze and for a second Malcolm wondered just how violent his reaction might be, when suddenly he was returning the kiss, their tongues exploring each other, Malcolm’s arms moving up to pull Jamie towards him and Jamie’s hands sliding into his hair, their mouths locked together. Finally, when they pulled apart, their breath quick and ragged, Malcolm entwined his long, clever fingers with Jamie’s and whispered “c’mon”, pulling him off the wall and deeper into the shadows.

 

* * *

 

And now Malcolm is shouting. He’s angry and he’s hurt and he’s _wrong_ but he’s hurling bitter words, punctuating Jamie’s protests with vitriol and invective. “I wish I had never dragged you out of that seminary,” he barks, and all Jamie can think is “you didn’t drag me; I went willingly” because that’s how it’s always been with Malcolm. Always. From that first night when Malcolm brushed his lips across Jamie’s throat and later against Jamie’s thigh, Jamie walked from one life to another, not because he had been dragged but because it was what he wanted. He made a choice and the choice was escape but then Jamie found himself something else to believe in and he’s damned if he’s going to lose his way again.

 


End file.
